The twelve days of winter
by I'm Nova
Summary: Answer to Let's Write Sherlock challenge 9. It offers 12 prompts, and I'll hopefully write one a day. Not-connected 221 B, drabbles and other tidbits. Hopefully as much as the cast as I can manage will show up. M not because of sexy times but because I have no idea what I'll write and want to be without worries.
1. Chapter 1

_A.N. A prompt a day sounds like a good thing to aim for. Hopefully I'll manage it. :-) Today we start with prompt n.1: Snowed in. 221B_

_Disclaimer: I'm not working for BBC and even less Arthur Conan Doyle, so I claim nothing. _

Lestrade groaned. If only this had happened an hour later, he would have been shamefully glad. He'd currently be ensconced near his boyfriend (the one he never thought he would have) with a glass of brandy to savour. And the prospect of love-making afterwards. Instead it had to happen just before the end of his shift. Snowed in _inside _Scotland Yard. The climate really was changing. And his luck was as rotten as always.

Every moment they had to spend forcibly trapped made people who had worked seamlessly together grow more irritated with each other. It was near Christmas, after all; overtime wasn't on anyone's wishlist. Especially not on the wishlist of people who were already overworked, and had little precious time to spend with their families.

Cooperating with Sherlock and hence knowing many colleagues' dirty secrets did not help any to bear the situation. Wondering if Donovan was less snappish than he expected of her because Anderson was trapped too was just...ugh.

The frustration was good for the soul too, though, the DI suspected. Or at least he tried to convince himself of it. It was almost comforting to know the weather – that anything at all – was still out of Mycroft's control. It reassured him that, despite all the hints to the contrary, he wasn't a god's boyfriend.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: nothing mine. BBC and Conan Doyle share the merits, errors and flaws are mine._

_A.N. Today's prompt (n.2): Gift giving. _

Molly was a fixture at Christmas parties in Baker Street. Even after the Hiatus. After all, Sherlock was grateful for her help. John might be furious for her deceit, but things would have been unspeakably worse if she had denied her full collaboration and compliance with the sleuth's instructions. Almost surely, at least one of Mrs. Hudson's tenants would have died in that case. So she was forgiven. The absolute hypocrisy of forgiving Sherlock but not her had a large hand in persuading the army doctor, she suspected. John didn't want to be that kind of man.

She needed a gift that said, "Sorry," anyway. Good thing that she had a stroke of luck. A stroke of luck whose first name started by M, to be entirely honest. John had told her once (with much bemoaning) that his textbooks from Uni had been left at Harry's when he enlisted, and that she had somehow managed to 'lose' them. Probably sold them, he surmised. Not that he _needed _them, but when she found them in a bookstore specialised in second-hand books (John did know his sister) she bought some of them. She was sure about recognizing John's books, because not only he signed them – homonymy was always a possibility – but he told her how he used a ridiculous ex libris, which was on them. She didn't buy all his textbooks, though. After all, Mycroft needed to say sorry too. On unwrapping his gift, John hugged her, and Molly wondered how the elder Holmes would cope with that kind of forgiving.

After such a display, it was Sherlock's turn. He kindly refrained from deducing her – loudly at least. Molly had made an effort to wrap his present not differently than she did all her friends' presents, so she supposed that they had both learned something from that awfully awkward party. She accepted that he would not be interested in her nowadays. Not _like that_, but being his friend still meant to belong to a very narrow circle of people, and she could be proud of it.

"You might want to open it after the party," she warned with a grin. Sherlock was the absolute easiest person in the world to find a gift for, but not everyone here would take in stride the samples she got him. It was a thing to know, entirely another to see, as every medical student learned at his own expense. She didn't want to ruin the fun for the others.


	3. Chapter 3

_A.N. Today prompt 3: Meeting the family. The P.S. will be vaguely __**spoilerish**__ about Empty Hearse, so if you haven't seen it don't read._

It wasn't difficult to surmise that at least one of the reasons of John's vehement, extremely drawn-out denial (his I'm-not-gay moments had become the refrain of their lives for the longest time) was the fear of his family's reaction. People's reaction to his sister's inclination probably (hopefully) had no relation at all to her dependence, but not once when mentioning Harry John had hinted that their parents were either helpful or worried, and that meant something in itself.

So when the boys finally stopped lying to themselves (too damn late, if you asked Mrs. Hudson – once she could be persuaded that yes, this was a very recent development) Sherlock had been quick in offering to his lover to keep the exact nature of their relationship a secret. The last thing he wanted was John letting himself be hurt by idiots' slurs or – God forbid – starting to second guess himself.

John's reaction had been asking him to meet his parents. "I know that people usually get engaged before doing that, but since I'm definitely not letting you go, we might as well," he added.

And so Sherlock had agreed and suffered the exposition to rare levels of idiocy. When John's mom had tearfully wondered where she'd gone wrong, the detective cut in. " Your belief that your actions might have bearing on your son's romantic choices is a clear sign of amentia. John must be a case of atavism to have been immune to that. Why do you care so much for spreading your genes anyway? What's so good about them?"

Mrs. Watson had gaped – very much like a fish – but her husband had attacked Sherlock. Or tried to, because the sleuth had effortlessly evaded him. John had protested, but before it could turn into a brawl Sherlock had dragged him away. They weren't worth it, as the detective made sure to proclaim in a Parthian shot.

"What's so good about your genes?" John echoed when they were out. "I should be offended too, but really...only you, Sherlock." He started giggling.

" That's why you love me," the detective replied with a smug smirk.

"I thought you hated stating the obvious."

_P.S. I had another one ready but then Empty Hearse had to go and introduce Sherlock's parents, so it became AU. I replaced that, but maybe I could put it up as bonus chapter. If you agree, my kind readers. _


	4. Chapter 4

_A.N. I need to apologize for yesterday – I put up chapter 2. You'd still have it if not for mrspencil, so be grateful to her. Todays' prompt: Winter Sports. Not great, but I can't manage better today._

_Disclaimer: nothing mine, you know, I know, let's move past it. _

It's a date (thankfully Sherlock-free). They're ice skating on Regents Park. It was Jeanette's idea. It's a long time since she did that, but after spending all day with children and books she needs to move. She needs to feel refreshed.

John went happily along with her suggestion, and now she understands why. It's not the first adjective she thinks of describing him with normally, but now John is deeply graceful. She's half tempted to sit back and admire him. But that would defeat the purpose of their outing.

Not to mention people could mistake him as not taken and try to flirt with him. She absolutely doesn't want that, so she sticks by him. And if she's less expert than him and sometimes has to lean on him to keep herself upright, he's not about to complain...

Until Sherlock texts with a case. John apologizes and runs to his side, while Jeanette starts to wonder if _she_'s the one who mistook John as not taken. That needs some careful consideration.


	5. Chapter 5

_A.N. This is a bit of headcanon (not only mine, judging from what I read here and there). Kid!lock for the prompt: Awkward holiday party. _

_Disclaimer: everything is owned by BBC & Arthur Conan Doyle. Errors are mine. _

Mycroft internally sighed. Sherlock had completely missed the point of the exercise. When he'd taught his little brother the art of deduction, Mycroft had explained it so well, too. Sherlock – with his brightness and his twig-like physique – was a prime target for bullying. Being able to deduce what people had been up to should have warranted him ample material for blackmail, to protect himself. But the point of blackmail was to _not _publiclyreveal what you knew unless pushed to do so, and instead his little brother had taken to blurting out his conclusions. Most unwelcome, especially because they were correct. He would be _more _bullied and hated that way.

And it made every reunion Sherlock attended a minefield – like now. Christmas party with all the family one never saw otherwise, and Sherlock just _had _to say who had a lover (his own father and cousin Sherrinford – at least it wasn't only the old man) and who was kleptomaniac (auntie Holly – hopefully really ill and not just stupid enough to try and steal from her relatives). At least dad knew better than deny it (that only prompted Sherlock to offer abundant evidence) and tried to change topic. The relatives were outraged, though, and accused his brother of lying.

Let's just say everyone present would have as much fun gossiping about this later as discomfort they felt – or feigned – now. But his own parents, of course. Not that Mycroft sympathized with them. If dad was stupid enough to try it with Sherlock around, and his mummy was blind enough to not notice until it was announced, they deserved anything coming their way. People should know better than make their happiness depend from others' behaviour anyway. Even so, Mycroft could only hope that the novelty of it would fade soon and Sherlock would start using deduction for its intended purpose.


	6. Chapter 6

_A.N. Prompt: Holidaying somewhere warm. Not sure how it turned up. Let me know, please?_

_Disclaimer: nothing mine, don't sue. _

He's in Cairo during what will later be known as Hiatus, when he's suddenly grabbed. He pivots, ready to fight, but finds another ghost facing him.

"Love! I can't believe that you're here too!" Irene exclaims. "You simply _have _to agree to that dinner."

Sherlock relaxes. Irene pulled out of Moriarty's organization long ago, and she's not about to betray him unless he gives her motive. He can't do anything until a certain rumor gets confirmed – or not – so he might as well indulge her for the evening. He smiles one of his pretended smiles and lets himself be led. He thought they'd go to a restaurant, but she brings him to a cozy little flat instead.

"Tea while I get dinner ready?" she offers smiling.

"No thank you."

"You think I wouldn't get it right. I won't deny it, Sherlock." She shrugs. "I can get this right, though," she adds, working on a lamb dish. "It was very nice to see you, dear. Since we're both ghosts, might as well spend our holidays somewhere warm, right? No need to freeze back home."

She's positively cheerful, and he can't understand why. "Not exactly," he answers, before stopping himself. He always talks too much around Irene, and even if she doesn't work for Jim anymore there's no reason to give her something she could use later.

"I'll admit it; I was wrong," she says softly, without looking at him. That's a gift not many had from the Woman.

"About what?" he queries, curious.

"Getting whom you wanted wasn't the best thing you could possibly do. I'd underestimated you. I thought you would die, so..." She shrugs again.

_Might as well enjoy yourself while you can._ That's what she told him in Karachi. Not offering herself for it. That had been already cleared.

"Not the first time that you underestimate me," Sherlock replies.

"Being too smug is not very attractive. You might want to remember it in the future," she instructs.

"I was right to refuse your reasoning then and I'll be right to refuse it again, so it really doesn't matter."

"Oh no you aren't doing it again!" she hisses. And why does she care?

"Who's stopping me?" the sleuth counters, defiant. "I could very well not ever go back."

"John's stopping you, or at least I dearly hope. And of course you will go back. You're still not entirely adrift. You're not _me_," Irene answers. "And now it's ready, so sit down and eat up. I'm not letting you get out of it." She's stern, and sounds so much like _someone else _(and how could she _know_?) that Sherlock is sat and eating before he realizes it.


	7. Chapter 7

_A.N. Prompt is Overindulgence. Not sure that I'm not off topic, so let me know, please?_

_Disclaimer: nothing mine, everything belongs to BBC and/or Conan Doyle._

Mycroft is with his brother. Again. Anthea (for Baker Street related matters; she keeps her identities separate according to the matter at hand) stops by the nearby café. Ironically, _she_'s in the mood for a pastry. Sherlock has it wrong. He'll tease Mycroft about his diet again, but these days are long past. The problem of the younger Holmes is that he doesn't easily update his data. Which is no problem with ash types and similar knowledge, but people are much more fickle.

If Mycroft indulges in something to reward himself, today, it's not sweets. The British Government has grown up, and his figure is there to show it. Rather than introducing calories, he's likely to burn them with a vigorous bit of...exercise. There are better ways to release serotonin than with chocolates, and she's always happy to help him unwind. She's been so lucky that day that Irene was otherwise busy and sent her to him with references and the highest recommendations Anthea could hope for.

She wonders if getting tangled so much with Mycroft might be an overindulgence of her own. Giving into what you want despite knowing it'll be bad for you in the end might very well define their relationship – on her side at least. She loves being with him (brainy is sexy, Irene is right), but being at his side is a not entirely calculated risk. She's careful to stay as invisible as she can, but with the things Mycroft keeps getting involved in, people are always looking for leverage on him. She's adamant not to let herself be used.


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: nothing mine as usual. _

_A.N. Prompt is Taking a tumble. _

A few months later that blessed meeting, they've switched roles. Stamford is the one with the cane now.

"What happened?" John queries.

"Damned ice!" the other grumbles. "I slipped and fell – stupid, I know. I twisted an ankle as a result."

"I'm sorry."

"But don't let me moan about it, or we'll be here a long time. I have to say, you're glowing, John. The new life decidedly suits you," Mike declares.

"Yeah. I never thanked you properly for introducing me to Sherlock, did I? So, well, thank you. Very much. And if you ever need something, remember that I'm in your debt," John replies.

"You can start with the miracle cure for getting rid of the blasted cane. Was it seriously as you wrote in the blog?" Mike smiles remembering the mad, sometimes incredible (then again, he knows them both) things his friend writes. Of course John has a heap of followers.

"Yep. Sorry for you, but my problem was really psychosomatic like everyone insisted. A dose of Sherlock might ruin your health right now rather then have a healing effect, I reckon," his friend states.

"Is he classed as a treatment now?" Mike quips. He just can't help it.

"I'd rather say a drug. In every nuance of the word. You made a happy addicted out of me," John counters. He could expound on the theme, too, but Mike doesn't need that.

"And I'm rather proud of it," Mike admits. Is this how gardeners feel seeing the wonderful blooms after a successful graft, he wonders.


	9. Chapter 9

_A.N. Prompt is Lazying about. Sorry for the angst. _

_Disclaimer: everything is property of BBC and/or Conan Doyle._

If you ask John, he'll tell you how awfully lazy Sherlock can be in vivid detail. The time he asked to be handed the mobile phone from his own bloody pocket is always a prominent feature of the tale. As always, John doesn't observe what's laid before him. Sherlock isn't simply lazy. He's experimenting. Of course the subject of said experiment must be unaware of it, so for once John's blindness is a good thing.

Each time he asks for something – or flat out refuses to do some simple chore – Sherlock is testing boundaries. Waiting for John to snap. He will – of course he will, everyone does. Someday he'll turn viciously on Sherlock. And on some level, in a twisted, masochistic way, Sherlock is eager for that to happen. For normality – his own brand of it, where relationships are only hurtful – to set in again. He's terrified (that too) of the day John will walk out on him and not come back again, obviously. But that will happen anyway, no matter what the sleuth does. So he pushes and pushes, and each time John huffs but tolerates him Sherlock allows himself to dream that John needs him bad enough to be unable to ever leave. (But John will, oh, he will.) Until then, Sherlock takes over the sofa and makes his best impression of a cat.


	10. Chapter 10

_A.N. Prompt is 'The competitive spirit'._

_Disclaimer: not mine, and it's tedious to repeat._

The Freak is around – again, on their case – and Sally snarls. It's Pavlovian reflex by now. She doesn't hate him, honestly. She admires what he can do, even if she's far from vocal about it. Then again, John is quite enough as claque. Sherlock would become surely even more unbearable if she was _friendly_, God forbid. She's not even so very disturbed by his glee at crime scenes – a bit weirded out by his child-on-Christmas-morning attitude, but it kind of grows on you. It's like babysitting an extremely tall toddler, and while that's decidedly not her calling, she's done it often enough for her nephews that she can bear him for a hour.

Still Sally finds Sherlock's very presence an annoyance, and makes sure to let it be known. She's a policewoman, for God's sake. She loves her job. And she'd like to solve a difficult case once in a while. She might need a week or ten days, instead of half a hour, but she's sure that she could do it. Maybe not a nine, but a four or five,why not? It's not like Sherlock is grateful for those. Yes, he's better than ¾ of Scotland Yard put together (¾ only, she hopes), but she's a certified detective too and if only Lestrade trusted his squad a bit more she could even prove it. To Sherlock and to herself, because she's starting to need the validation, sad as it is.


	11. Chapter 11

_A.N. Prompt is Muuuurder. Shameless advertising for the fantasy series "A Song of Ice and Fire" by George R.R. Martin. It isn't really spoiler for it if I mention a way of death but not who dies like that right? The death is in the first book of the series anyway. I hope I might be forgiven. _

_Disclaimer: nothing is mine. _

Jim's happy. Almost downright giddy, in truth. This always bodes very badly for someone. You'd think that with his distaste for dirtying his own hands the man wouldn't be so bloodthirsty. But getting dirty is what minions are for, and he has never shortage of those. Jim's taste for blood (and body parts; and just _creative _killings) would make him a worthy partner for Carroll's Queen of Hearts, if only he could enter the book. Wouldn't it be fun?

He'll organize anything for you. Drug rings, kidnappings, robberies. But Jim always likes best the ones who ask for murders or terrorist attacks. It makes him the closest he can get to God. And it allows him to act out his fantasies. Oh yes, playing with people's lives is simply delightful.

He takes inspiration here and there when he's not obliged to cater to people's – clients' – scarce abilities. Not only fairy tales. Martin's series always has some very interesting suggestions. The Bolton noble house is definitely full of people that Jim wishes he could really meet, Roose in particular. He likes to pay homage to them in his work. Now, if only he could find a victim worthy of receiving the molten crown, Jim would be perfectly content. At least for two weeks (probably).

_P.S. The Bolton's sigil is the flayed man, so I couldn't resist. _


	12. Chapter 12

_A.N. Today's prompt Wild Card – Author Choice! I went with Twelfth Night. Assuming it is Sherlock's birthday, of course. _

_Up there someone hates me. My pc broke exactly the day of last season 3 episode. I'm updating from a public library with stone age computers. Updates to anything might be sparse at least for some weeks, but I'll accumulate a lot of written chapters for later, I guess. _

_Disclaimer: nothing mine._

John has to askMycroft to know Sherlock's birthday. He tried asking the detective – prompted by a horoscope he found while surfing the TV channels, of all things. He received a tirade against all irrational practices and no answer to his simple question. John knows better than insist when Sherlock is determined to ignore something. The doctor is stubborn in his own right, though, and not above using the elder Holmes occasionally. God knows that the reverse would happen all the time if Mycroft had his way.

So when twelfth night draws near (especially after the Christmas they got) John looks forward to it. He considers throwing Sherlock a party, but since the man is keeping his birthday a secret – and after the way the last party went – he discards the idea. He won't even mention the birthday, if Sherlock doesn't like to draw attention to it. Why though? He's barely in his 30s, it's not like he's growing old. John plans the evening.

Dinner at Sherlock's favorite Thai place and opera, with a little help from Mycroft to get a ticket so late. Then he claims that his date – the one he supposedly organized this for – dumped him, and won't Sherlock come? It's a pity to waste tickets and reservation after all. It works (apparently). Sherlock even eats instead of pushing around the contents of his plate as usual, and the performance has him near ecstatic.

When they're back home, Sherlock queries, "Why did you do it, John?"

"Do what?" The doctor won't admit to anything until forced to, just in case Sherlock finds fault with it, his earlier enjoyment notwithstanding.

"Oh, come on, it was glaringly obvious. This wasn't for the boring girl who dumped you at Christmas – not her style – and if you'd met and broken up with someone else in so short a span I'd have noticed the signs. This was for me. My birthday. But why?" He sounds honestly puzzled.

"_Because _it's your birthday, and we're friends, and it's fine if you want to pretend it's a normal day but it's not a good reason not to have fun today," John explains patiently.

"Pretend this is a normal day?" Sherlock echoes.

"Of course it's special. You were born, and come on, you don't really need me to explain how special you are, do you?" the doctor replies (prays).

"Normal is not something I've ever been accused of being," the sleuth agrees.

"Rather, why don't you like to party today?" John asks, too curious not to.

"Mycroft said long ago that I was born in the perfect day for me. The one that means the end of all previous happiness. It didn't seem something that needed to be pointed out, in case you missed it."

John's used to the brothers teasing each other all the time, but this is just mean. Long ago meant that Sheròpck had been just a child too, probably. He smothers the surge of anger before Sherlock can misinterpret its object. "Mycroft is a big, fat liar. And we're having a party next year, if only to annoy him," he announces.

Sherlock smiles. The day is a success.


	13. Chapter 13

_A.N. The extra prompt 3, season 3 AU. _

John had imagined Sherlock's parents to be cold, standoffish...maybe absent, delegating to nannies – and Mycroft. When the 'lucky announcement' had finally come (too damn late, but would it have been better or worse if they admitted it a week in, he wondered) even Sherlock acknowledged that his fiancé had to meet the family. He made very clear his distaste for all of them in advance though and insisted that he was not to be held responsible for what any of them did or said. John wholeheartedly agreed, of course. After meeting Mycroft – and what a first meeting that had been – John reckoned that he was ready for anything. He wasn't.

He wasn't ready for Sherlock's father being – with a pseudonym – a highly successful writer of children books, asking his opinion as a fellow author on the merits of different fairy species. John definitely didn't expect him to ruffle his son's curls and say, "You can't still be grouchy because I 'deceived' you. I was just feeding your imagination. And believe me, since you lost your childhood illusions you've been downright impossible."

Sherlock's glare would have cowed many a serial killer, but was ineffective on his dad. John choked on the drink he'd been offered and was utterly glad because it stopped him from bursting into laugh. He was still slightly hysteric though, because the subsequent, "Papa, please!" only made the doctor want to point out to his boyfriend what an awful alliteration that was.

John definitely wasn't ready for Mummy Holmes. She was a waifish, redheaded vision who introduced herself as Calliope.

"That's not your name and no matter what papa says you're not a Muse!" Sherlock scolded. John was horrified seeing the woman start to sob.

Mycroft (whose presence John had honestly forgotten) sharply scolded, "Sherlock! Do you upset Mummy on purpose?"

The doctor did what he does best. Go along with Holmes madness. "Err...Lady Calliope..." he called. He hoped that was correct. What was proper etiquette with a muse?

She sniffled a bit. "Yes dear?"

"It's weird, but I have the impression to have met you before...or seen you somewhere."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

She blushed. "I didn't think that a youngster like you would watch old theater plays reruns. I've left the scenes to be a mom. And apparently I fail at that," she cooed, ending in a dramatic sigh.

_Oh. So that was why he got that feeling. Must have seen her when he was humouring Colette. _

"That's not true, Mummy," Mycroft assured.

With the encouragement of his brother's well hidden elbow, Sherlock volunteered, "You could certainly have been much worse."

"And that's his praise. Really, John, where did I go wrong with him?" Her voice quivered a bit, though thankfully she didn't cry again.

Privately, John thought that the problem was having two primadonnas in a single house. Instead he only said, "You didn't. He's quite perfect like he is." That was true, too.


End file.
